Solace
by stormsandsins
Summary: A Pigman spinoff. "You're cold," he said matter-of-factly, after having lit a cigarette. I didn't say anything. I didn't want to see his purple bruise, so horrible against his pale skin, or his face, for that matter. "Come on, let's get warmed up."
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: The Pigman was the very first English book I read in high school. I remember, because it was also the first English book I actually read and understood from start to finish, and because I liked it. Period. I don't even know why. I always thought the book lacked a little something and the characters were a little OOC, but psychologically, it's rich. So at some point, probably in grade 8, I decided to write something about it. Now, mind you, I was 14. I did do a few edits over the years, but nothing terribly changing. I like this piece, but it lacks a je-ne-sais-quoi. Mind telling me what it is? ;) I won't bite. Promise.

I have _no_ clue where this fic starts anymore or what's the premise. I think I'd planned a prologue or something to set the time and place and so on, but it's been lost to my constantly overriding cerrebrum. Ack.

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**UNTITLED  
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That night, I couldn't help but still feel extremely bad. It kept me up the moment my head hit my pillow, as my mother's usual whining reached my ears. I wanted to shut her out and throw away the key. I mean, how much more of "Lorraine, did you cut the hem off your skirt?", "don't keep getting fresh on me, young lady" and "what did I tell you about boys? That's right, don't ever get involved in their sick little playing games" can one take before going mentally berserk? I was about ready to smack her by the time she drifted off to her own bedroom, finally giving me some quiet peace. I heard the bathroom cabinets being opened then closed, and then the lights closed and all was silent and dark in the house.

I tried to fall asleep. I really did. It's just that I kept picturing John's stoic expression from earlier this afternoon. It was like I was watching a movie, and I was the spectator, although I could see myself in the picture. I saw myself cry, and I felt extremely sheepish. I mean, of all things to do, I cried on him. And the one and only thing that he said to me after was : "Don't blame yourself, Lorraine." I felt like crying again. Seems like I cry at some really meaningless stuff, but the thing is, I probably am too sensitive for my own good. John keeps saying that; he probably does have a point.

I sighed, feeling immensely uncomfortable, like the walls were contracting and the air was being sucked out of me. Now, I've never really felt claustrophobic before -- I've had other mental disturbances before, that goes unmentionned -- but I could tell from all these articles in my magazines and their descriptions of the maladies that I was probably feeling claustrophobic now. And that scared me, maybe more so than before I'd nailed it down to that. I sat up quickly, flicked open my lamp on the night table, and heaved a breath. I looked around, and bit my lip in frustration.

Then I did something that took me a while to work up the courage to do. I dialed John's phone number, and hung up on the first ring, hoping against hope that he wasn't asleep or wasn't out someplace else. I stood, and quickly changed into my skirt and another blouse. Then, very quietly, I opened my bedroom door and peered outside to make sure my mother was asleep, and slipped out, padding down the stairs. There, I grabbed my coat off the peg and zipped it on. I went outside through the back door. The front door always creaked off its hinges and used to give me the creeps when I'd go through it on nightly escapades with John.

The snow crunched under my boots. It was melting, but tonight was an especially cold night that bit at my face the instant I set foot outside. And then I headed for the corner, holding myself up even though I was exhausted.

The streetlamps glared at me and sent sinister-looking shadows of the lined trees splaying on the ground. It was so cold that I was shivering a bit, and kept my hands shoved deep into my coat pockets. I groaned to myself for being stupid enough to wear a skirt like this on a night like this. And my ears, though covered by my hair, were congealed to the blood.

I waited about five minutes, feeling anxious, at that corner. But then I saw him, hair being blown in his face and his form hunched over from the wind, hands shoved in his pockets as well.

He stopped short in front of me, blue eyes staring into green. "What's wrong?" he asked.

I shivered. "N -- nothing. I just... had to get away."

I felt his X-Rays boring through my eyes, cut into slits against the cutting wind, and I looked away. The wind picked up again, and I felt my hair revealing my neck. I shivered again, feeling my teeth clattering together.

"You're cold," he said matter-of-factly, after having lit a cigarette.

I didn't say anything. I didn't want to see his purple bruise, so horrible against his pale skin, or his face, for that matter.

"Come on, let's get warmed up."

Next thing I knew, I was following him towards a street much frequented in the past.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: Aaaand... here's the last piece of Pigman fic I wrote. I have to say, though, I was already interested in the sexual aspect of relationships... wiggles eyebrows Dunno if I would have written IT, though. Oh well. You fill in the blanks :)

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**UNTITLED**

"Where did you get the key?" I asked as he closed the door behind us, hanging the key on a small key-shaped little hanger by the door.

"Well," he started slowly, "I nicked it. But for a good cause." I had a feeling he'd added that for my benefit. "I mean, why should we let this go away to the cops? They would have just thrown it away or something. So, just before the ambulance arrived at the monkey house, I nicked it." He moved to the living-room and sat down on the couch.

I followed him and sat at his side, although I was careful not touching him at all, and crossed one leg under me. We'd hung our wet coats on the peg by the door.

I cleared my throat then, and looked sidelong at him. "Thank you for being here," I finally blurted out.

"Why are we here?" he asked shortly. I could tell he wasn't mad or annoyed, but something in his eyes was odd.

"I..." I trailed off, unable to manage a proper answer. How do you go on telling your best friend you were feeling a bit too claustrophobic for your own good?

He was looking at me intently, waiting for my answer.

"I was... a little... I couldn't sleep."

He made a face. "Me neither. The Old Lady kept bickering about my being mean to the Bore, and the Bore just sat there doing nothing at all and reminding me what a good career I could get if I went over to his madhouse. Keeps saying a lot of codswallop too."

"Oh." I could only imagine his parents, and winced at some things I remembered him telling me before, about them.

"Don't," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"You're going to feel sorry for me and what I have to go through."

"I... no!" I said, shocked. "I wasn't going to say anything of the sort." I looked at my lap. "How's your bruise?" I asked quietly, changing the subject.

"I'm fine," he replied. "Don't blame yourself, Lorraine."

There you go, again. I sighed and looked up to see the same stoic expression that made me so sad and constricted.

"I could have stopped it. I could've stopped you from inviting those people. I could've stopped you from dragging me over here for ten bucks. I could've stopped so many things from happening. Like his first heart attack. I could've stopped it all, John, but something kept pushing me, and it killed him in the end. I feel so horrible."

"He would've died anyway. It's not your fault."

I sprung up from the couch, tears springing to my eyes and blurring my view. I went to the half-risen wall separating the living-room from the hallway leading to the kitchen. Right in front of me was the room where the Pigman used to keep his large collection of pigs, to my left was the entrance, and to my right was the staircase leading to the second floor. I leaned my body into the wall, sobbing quietly.

I heard footsteps coming behind me, and then I felt a pair of hands meet my waist, and then a pair of lips on the crook where my neck met my shoulders, and then a very faint scent of shaving lotion and soap, and I sighed. My knees wanted to melt into a puddle, but I caught myself before they could. His lips were cold and cracked and rought from the wind, but they were heavenly. I mean, we've kissed before. Chaste kisses on the cheek, and then that one awkward kiss on the lips just a few weeks ago. But that one was so awkward that it just feels right to not really ention it. But I guess I should give it a little more credit, because that kiss made me realise that John was really a very handsome boy. Not that I'd never known before, it's just... It's like when you highlight a text so it stands out to you. That's how I felt about it, really. I don't know about him, but I was a bit more self-conscious about myself after that. But we turned out to still be friends.

I remember feeling a shiver run through my whole body. Whether it was from the outside cold or him, I couldn't tell, but it was there and it was pleasant. His hair brushed on my cheek and tickled my neck, but I couldn't help the sobs from coming, no matter how hard I tried. They made my throat constrict and the tears run down over my cheeks. And I felt horrible.

A girl and a boy, dressed up for a candle-lit dinner.

"You look beautiful!"

"Do you mean it?"

A dress ripped.

That probably had been a bad omen as well.

It started raining outside. I could hear the raindrops drumming on the roof and the windowpanes. And I knew right then that there would be ice tomorrow on the streets.

"It's not your fault," John repeated softly in my ear.

He turned me around and I looked up into his big blue eyes.

"He wouldn't want us to live locked in the past."

I lifted a hand to run my fingers on his face where he'd fallen; he winced, but leaned in and kissed me. It was different from our first kiss. Perhaps because this time there was no silliness behind it; perhaps because my emotions were out of control.

The rain clattered still.

When he pulled away, he looked me directly in the eye, as serious as ever before. I felt like I was going to melt under his stare, I wanted to crawl away and hide from him. Sometimes he scares me when he looks at me like that. I'm not afraid of him, per se.

I could tell he was searching for something in my eyes. What, I couldn't say, but I knew him well enough to know for sure that he was.

"What?" I asked finally.

"This is probably not why you called me in the first place."

"I don't... mind," I said softly; so softly, in fact, that I was sure he hadn't heard it.

He pulled his hands away and looked away at the entrance. I could tell something was bothering him. He was fidgeting a bit. This was not like the John Conland that I knew, to be like this.

"It's not your fault either, you know," I said.

He was silent. I bit my lip, unable to find something else to say. Suffice to say, it was dead silent and made me uncomfortable.

I reached a hand up, turning his head to face mine. Needless to say, he was wearing a stoic expression again.

"Look at me." His eyes darted away. "Look at me," I repeated, this time brushing a strand of hair away from his brow. He closed his eyes. "I don't know what to say. I don't know what could change your mind about this, John." I paused. "You said youself, he would've died anyway. He wouldn't want us to live in the past. Well I'm telling you the same thing, now."

"It's not the same thing," he said quietly.

"Yes, it is. You're telling me I shouldn't feel sorry anymore. We both know you're still feeling sorry. It's ridiculous. Why you and not me? We both had something to do in his death." I looked in his striking eyes. "Don't you dare... don't you dare think for one second it's only your fault," I said before going back to sit down on the couch, where I watched him standing there out of the corner of my eye. And I knew right then and there that I had him convinced. John practically never let someone speak their way into his mind, but I'd been his friend for quite a while and I knew, most of the time, how to convince him. Perhaps not as well as him convincing me, but I knew how.

After a minute of watching him, I turned my attention to the window where, outside, it poured still, matching the mood inside. There was only one streetlamp in front of Mr Pignati's house, but it was enough light to see how much it rained. I drew my legs up, circling my knees with my arms, and just watched, with my back to the handrest. I felt immensely tired again.

And then I turned my head and saw him. He was sitting down, with his legs drawn up, against the half wall. We stared at each other wordlessly for a long time. Then, unwelcome, thoughts of what my mother would say to this, to us, came in my head. I was furious at myself. My mother had always badgered me about everything from my looks to men to life. And now I always felt like when I had a moment alone she would intrude and give me a piece of her mind. I shook my head mentally, as if shaking cobwebs away from where they clung to the insides of my head. How dare she intrude on my thoughts?

John picked himself up and, for a moment I thought he was going to leave. He disappeared in the entrance, and then came back with a pack of cigarettes and lit himself one as he came back into the living-room.

"You shouldn't smoke," I said with a quiet, clipped tone.

He shrugged, then sat by me silently. It was as if we were at a funeral. The gloomy weather outside, the sound of a grand-father clock ticking away loudly in the corner, our dull silence, the sight of dried flowers in a vase. Everything at the moment cried 'funeral' or worse, 'cemetary'. John likes cemetaries, but I think it's all a bit creepy. I still can't go to a cemetary alone, yet he does it and thinks it's relaxing place. I could only imagine how content he must have felt to be here.

John took his last puff and then crushed the butt in the ashtray.

"You're leaving?" I asked, unable to hide the disappointment from my voice.

"No... should I?"

I bit my lip. "No... stay, please."

"Alright," he said, situating himself so he could face me.

I smiled gratefully. "Thanks." I sat back, once again watching outside. It wasn't raining so hard anymore.

"Remember when we stayed here alone the first time?" he asked suddenly.

I paused in my action. I couldn't see outside anymore. How could I forget? Me cooking spaghetti, him coming down the stairs dressed to impress, then me dressing up as well and making a grand entrance. I'd felt silly, until that moment when he charged at me, and tackled me to the bed. And the kiss, how could I forget the kiss?

"Yes," I answered, a bit breathless as I remembered his lips on the hollow of my neck and shoulder. I could feel my face growing burning hot.

He smiled a very small smile that made me feel like I was melting in a soft goo, and then the next thing I knew was that my lips were covered by his.


End file.
